For All That
by 6GunSally
Summary: Tharkay follows the caravans east and west and back again, until he meets someone who makes him think staying in one place might just be worth it. Then a letter arrives from another lifetime, one he's all but forgotten, and he is forced to return to his father's home. Tharkay before he met Laurence et al. Minor OCs; Tharkay-backstory; Tharkay/Sara
1. 1 Istanbul

_**Disclaimer: Several characters as well as this Alternate History were created by Naomi Novik. I'm just a fan, imitating.**_

**-1-**

**Istanbul**

_In which Tharkay accepts a bit of courier duty and begins his journey along the Silk Road._

He sat quietly in the corner of the room while all the little lords, with their powdered wigs and brocade coats, argued in the room. The host wore company colors and styled himself as some sort of military commander—but the wars were far away from here. Tharkay knew because he'd been there and India had nearly killed him.

He took out his knife to clean his fingernails—not that they really needed it—but he was amused by the furtive looks from several of the merchants in the room. They were always going to be wary of him, why not give them something to be wary about?

Beddows, the company man, owned the house. He'd also spent a great deal of time in India, and he'd brought as much of the place with him as he could when he set up in Turkey. Many of the servants, Tharkay remembered from his dealings with Beddows in India.

Beddows had already come to an agreement with Tharkay about the job, but he'd insisted that Tharkay come for dinner. Why should one turn down a free meal—especially when it promised a refreshing break from bulgur and vegetables. At least, Tharkay thought, as he held up his hand to inspect his nails, he could count on Beddows keeping a good table.

The conversation had returned to China and the glances in his direction were steadily increasing. Tharkay put away his knife and leaned back in his chair to glare out at them. Then Beddows met his eye and everyone was looking at him. Tharkay stood and moved to stand beside Beddows while the man described his purpose in their venture.

Tharkay stretched his shoulders and then tucked one of his thumbs into his wide leather belt. Beddows told the merchants he'd be four months there and back from China and their glancing curiosity turned into awe and perhaps, he hoped, a bit of plotting.

One of Beddows' Indian servants brought in more wine and the party broke off into small groups. Tharkay took a glass, moved toward the window and stared down on the city bathed in the yellowing light of early evening. Istanbul was very fine. He might never live like a prince in Istanbul but he felt he had a place here; here was where Europe met with Asia and East and West converged.

Tharkay turned at a touch to his shoulder; it was Beddows, wearing his ridiculous red coat.

"We're going into dinner, Tharkay," He said. Tharkay nodded and followed him.

He'd dined with Beddows and his family before, but never with other guests. This particular group—gathered for business—proved to be a rather uncompromising lot. Conversation died as soon as Tharkay joined them at the table. Beddows met his eye apologetically. The women, thankfully, were not present. Mrs. Beddows having taken her daughters to England to visit relatives.

No one spoke to Tharkay, so he kept to himself. He eyed the Italian sitting across from him surreptitiously as he served himself. The man was trying very hard to avoid looking at him. Just as well, Tharkay thought, he could eat in peace. And he did.

* * *

George Drysdale entered his sister's townhome and stood in the narrow doorway and shook off his coat and hat before hanging them up. He took his case and all but ran up the stairs in his excitement. His sister was in the sitting room consoling a deeply upset little boy. George's smile faded immediately.

"What is the matter here?" He asked, "Moira?"

The boy just sat and pouted at the window with his tears still staining his round cheeks. Moira looked at him and stood to answer, "Oh George, I only took him with me to the market. He seemed so terribly bored here—"

"Da," The boy said, "I'm not like you. I'm not like anybody else."

"John Ross asked him where he was from," Moira said, "The man is simple George, he didn't think anything of it."

George frowned and knelt in front of his young son, "Now Geordie, that isn't a way for a young man to act."

"He said I looked like a China doll," Geordie said.

"What's so wrong with that?" George said, "You're a very handsome fellow. But if you pout and cry and wrinkle your brow people will think you're a troll. Come now, stop that."

"I wish I was like you," Geordie said, "I don't want to be different."

"Certainly you don't wish everyone to be the same," George said, "Variety makes our world interesting and beautiful. What a boring place it would be if all things were the same."

Geordie nodded but he didn't seem relieved. He let his father take his hand and pull him to his feet. George looked at his sister, but the woman just shook her head.

"But I had good news," George said, "and we mustn't let our sensitivities prevent us from enjoying it."

"Go on then, George," Moira said.

"Father, God rest his soul, had left me a very sizeable debt for my inheritance," George began.

"Now, George there's no need to—"

"I've been able to settle his accounts, you see I've done quite well for myself in India," George interrupted. "And," George looked directly at Geordie, "I've purchased the old house."

Moira's eyes went wide, "You did not!"

"You shall have a very nice manor to explore," George said to Geordie, "You will very much like the country there."

"Is it that place near the old Abbey?" Moira asked and George nodded.

"Can we get a dragon?" Geordie asked.

The two adults laughed and George said, "We shall see."

* * *

The horse was a small creature, little bigger than a pony, but it carried its fine head high and its stride ate up the miles well enough. Tharkay called him Khan—short for Genghis Khan—mostly because it was amusing to him that such a small, inauspicious little horse should have such an auspicious name.

He'd purchased the little horse when he'd passed through Behshahr almost two years ago. At the time, he'd had very little money and the animal was bought at such a dear price, he took much care in his keeping. There where times where Khan was quartered better than Tharkay was. If Khan was spoiled it didn't show, he was a willing little horse and trusting.

Khan, without much coaxing, kept a quick a steady gallop and Tharkay could already see Mt. Hassan in the distance. Khan had tugged steadily at the bit for the last day and a half since they'd left Istanbul and here in the fields of Anatolia, Tharkay saw no reason to keep him from it now.

Khan slowed suddenly as a large shadow passed overhead; Tharkay looked up. It was a small yellow dragon, a Turkish courier, probably. Khan stopped completely, ears twitching and he turned twice in a circle before Tharkay could coax him into continuing on. Tharkay patted his little horse on the neck.

"If you were a dragon, we'd be there already," he said into the wind. Khan's ears twitched at the sound of his voice. Tharkay wouldn't give up his prize little horse, not even for a dragon.

It was already dark when they arrived at Sultan Han and a few Aqche bought Tharkay fodder for his little horse and some lavash for himself. He saw to Khan's needs and left in horse hobbled before taking his lavash and joining a few other men at the fire.

Here no one seemed alarmed at the sight him and one or two recognized him from previous travels or from other caravansaries. He was content here among muffled voices—some in languages he didn't recognize—the warm smells of camel and horse. Some of these people were headed East into the orient, some West to 'civilization' and still others South into the southern reaches of the Ottoman Empire.

He awoke in the cool stillness of dawn and busied himself checking and re-checking his panniers with a fastidiousness learned in another lifetime with the East India Company Army. He pulled off his jacket, a short wool coat in the style of most European Cavalry—though he'd let his fade into an inconspicuous brown. He stripped to his waist and washed in one of the niches in the stonewalls left for that purpose, he was soon joined by several Arabs, stoically conducting ablutions before their morning prayers.

Refreshed, Tharkay returned to Khan and took the little horse by the bridle to water him before the next leg of their journey.

"_Tarkay Agha_!" It was a woman's voice ringing along the walls of the courtyard. Tharkay had pulled his shirt back over his head but when he saw her coming he worked quickly to tuck the tails back into his pants. He was still tucking his shirt when she neared him.

"_Firuz Khanum_," He smiled abashed at her sudden appearance and his state of undress. Firuz smiled back, she was missing one of her premolars, but the smile brightened her sun-dark face nonetheless. "_Are you going to Istanbul_?"

She spoke to him in court Farsi, a language Tharkay was familiar enough with from his time with the caravans. "_I just left Istanbul_," he said, "_going east_."

Firuz frowned but she fixed him with her bright hazel eyes earnestly. She was an older woman—maybe ten years his senior—but every time he ran into her Tharkay found himself wishing that he'd been born ten years earlier.

"_Tarkay Agha_," she said determinedly, "_Take me to Istanbul first, then you come back_."

"_I cannot_," Tharkay said, "_I have wazifeh_."

"_To Hindustan_?"

"_No, China_."

She made a derisive noise and waved her hands at him dismissively, "_Come to Istanbul first_."

Tharkay smiled at her in frustration. He'd met her and her camels the first time he'd gone through Esfahan, a woman merchant alone with five children. He was in a bad way and needed help and she offered it freely, he in turn had provided her and her small caravan the male protection she'd needed. She'd made an amiable travel companion and Tharkay did not have to fake his remorseful look when he said, "_I'm sorry, Firuz Khanum, I cannot_."

As compensation, Tharkay stayed to help her water the camels. They said nothing to each other while they worked. Tharkay put on his jacket and made his farewells before leading Khan toward the main portal out of the caravansary. They were nearly outside when Khan jerked his head up and made a high-pitched whinny.

"Whoa," Tharkay said. He tugged on the bridle forcing Khan's head into his jacket. He saw the shadow slide toward them along the dirt and then bounce up as it slid along the walls. He pulled Khan forward and only uncovered his head when they had parted the high stonewalls.

They were not so far away that the screams and protests from inside the caravansary could not be heard. Tharkay's brow furrowed as he managed to calm Khan enough to put the bit back into his horse's mouth. "They can water a dragon some other place can't they?"

Khan only snorted, quivering slightly. Tharkay mounted and urged the little horse to put Sultan Han far behind him. Khan, who was still very agitated about the dragon, willingly complied.

* * *

**A/N:** _So it's finally come to this. I need to stop writing for Temeraire and explore a new world. Unfortunately, this story is the one that's been playing in my head and it just won't die. This is the story I've been working up to._

_Yes, it's a Tharkay back-story. If you don't like Tharkay, I'm sorry. But I do hope you give him a chance._

_Reviews/Comments welcome—especially if I stray too far off track. Except for the flashback portions in the middle of each chapter, the intent is to keep this in his POV. So I'd really appreciate it if let me know if there are discrepancies in POV._


	2. 2 Persia

_**Disclaimer: Several characters as well as this Alternate History were created by Naomi Novik. I'm just a fan, imitating.**_

**-2-**

**Persia**

_In which Tharkay crosses through Persia._

They went south into the steady rise of mountains, following the steadily increasing traffic on the road. The road through the mountains could be arduous with a wagon or a large train, but it was nothing for a man and horse. Especially a horse like Khan.

"You're home now," Tharkay said softly and Khan's ears turned to listen to him.

They were too far off to make Tehran but they would be able to rest in Qazvin. Tharkay had skipped Tabriz, avoiding the city by a wide berth, too many dragons in Tabriz. Khan had had to make due with the rough grasses that grew in the mountains where they'd made a lonely encampment. Qazvin seemed all the more enticing for it.

Tharkay was no stranger to this kind of hardship, but he also saw no purpose in making their journey more difficult than it had to be. The road before them had difficulties enough.

It was dark when they neared the lights of Qazvin and the promise of respite. Tharkay was forced to wake the stable master near the center of the city, and he stayed to watch the boy that was sent rub down his horse. Satisfied that Khan was quite well taken care of, Tharkay shouldered his panniers and went into the market. It was still bustling even after dark and large moths flitted about the fires lighting the outdoor market.

Partly because he wanted to walk about and stretch his legs and partly because he was hungry—having subsisted on bulgur and water since leaving Sultan Han—he went eagerly into the crowded market. He was able to add to his small store of supplies there; adding a measure of rice and beans and even a generous scoop of dates. His nose took him past the spice sellers and the jarring pastiche of Arabic, Persian and Hindi to where the food sellers where just starting to pack up their things for the night.

He was lucky, the man who's shop he stopped at told him several times over. He was given greens and tomatoes—only slightly wilted, and the skewers left over from the days cooking. So lucky, the man said and at least it was not going to waste. Tharkay sat behind a large building, painted white, at the edge of the market and stared out at the dark thoroughfare while he enjoyed his repast.

An elderly man dressed in flowing white robes and a ragged turban rolled from a dark cloth joined him presently. The man started to scold him in Arabic and Tharkay shook his head in response, but he offered some of his food and the man. The man accepted and sat with him.

"_Mughuli_?" the old man asked him.

Tharkay shook his head, "_No_," Tharkay answered him in Persian, "_I'm from the east_."

"_The east_?" the man said, greedily shoving saangak into his mouth, "_Are you lost_?"

Tharkay chuckled at his strange—albeit nosey—companion. "_No, I'm traveling_."

"_Where are you traveling to_?"

"_East,_" he said.

The man grinned. "_You are Hazara_?"

Tharkay laughed, "_My Persian is not so pretty_."

"_I am from Baghdad_," the old man said, "_Everyone's Persian is pretty. I met a lady here once, she was Hazara. Very beautiful._"

Tharkay nodded at him and wiped his mouth. Suddenly hoping the old man would go away.

"_Are you traveling alone_?"

Tharkay shrugged, "_I have a horse_."

The man laughed, "_A horse is not a companion. You are so very young to be traveling alone._"

"_I'm old enough, I should think_," He said.

"_How old are you? Fifteen? Sixteen_?"

Tharkay snorted with laughter.

"_I am very old_," The man said, "_I'm poor and I'm tired. I'm fifty-seven years old_."

"_Fifty-seven_?" Tharkay repeated.

"_And how old are you my young friend? My boy_?"

The man grinned and put up his hand as if to touch Tharkay's face but Tharkay caught it with his own and glared. The old man laughed.

Tharkay just stood and shouldered his panniers. He was not very tall—as far as most Europeans go—but here he was tall. And he looked at the old man derisively.

"An old man should have a care when he goes about propositioning strangers he meets on the road," he said in English. The old man stared at him, dumbstruck.

"_Angrizi_?" Was all he said as Tharkay turned away from him and walked into the darkness.

* * *

"Geordie!" The elder George got down from his horse and started probing the bushes at the edge of the wood with his stick. He stood and listened. Nothing, just the sound of birds and insects and the faint sound of water rushing in the nearby stream. Geordie had been gone since the evening before, and he was like to spend another night out in the cold if he didn't come home soon.

George pulled off his cap and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The boy wasn't normally like this. He was a good boy, studious—when he was told—clever too. George sighed guiltily as his worst fears floated ghastly portents in his mind. What could have driven the boy to run off this time?

"Geordie," George called again, "Come home, son."

On the other side of the wood he could hear Coll, the groundskeeper, helping in the search. They plodded through the trees and checked under bushes and stones until the light got too dim to see.

Finally George waved at Coll and together they rode back to the manor house. Coll took George's horse and George went silently into the house. He went into his library and sat with his head in his hand. Exhausted and pained with worry.

"Sair, I brought you a tray. Come an' hae some tea no'" it was Martha cook to the small manor.

"Thank you, Martha," George said, but he didn't look up.

Moira arrived late the next morning and she was still dusting off her skirts in the drive when she saw her brother looking agitated come around from outside.

"George, what ever is the matter?" She said.

"It's little George," he said taking her arm and leading her inside, "He's run off again."

"Oh why are you worried, he'll be back when he's hungry," Moira said pulling a pin out of her hat and hanging it up when they got inside.

"He's been gone two nights now," George said with barely concealed exasperation.

Moira looked at him sternly, "What happened?"

"I don't know," George said, "He didn't seem unhappy. He never said anything!"

Moira sighed, "This is why he needs a mother, you can't expect a lad like that to understand what he's feeling. And you retreat into your books and forget about him. It's no wonder he's gone off again."

"You dare!" George shouted red faced, "I am his father!"

Moira made an exasperated noise, it sounded almost like a growl. She went back to the entryway and put on her hat.

"Where are you going, now?"

"I'm going into the village," she said.

"Why? He's not going to be in the—"

"Obviously you've done all your crawling through the wood already. I may as well ask about the village."

"Moira please don't—"

"Are you embarrassed?" Moira said sharply, glaring up at her brother, "Are you worried about them knowing you've lost the lad? I hope that woman is kind to him at least, since his father can't be bothered with him."

George frowned at his sister. "Moira, I'm going to the old abbey with Coll, in case he's gone there."

She waved her hand at him in acknowledgement, but did not pause or turn around.

* * *

Tharkay walked beside Khan with one hand on the little horse's neck. His brief encounter in Qazvin had upset him so for the last nine days their path diverged widely from the caravans. Tharkay brooded now giving his horse and his own legs a break.

"It seems," He told the little dun horse, "that most people will assume that if one's looks are disparate from the population majority then certainly one's personality must also be divergent."

Khan snorted and Tharkay held out a date for him. The horse ate it eagerly and nosed at him for another.

"If you eat them all today, there'll be none for tomorrow."

Tharkay stopped and gazed toward the horizon, the Alborz were mostly behind them now and he could see the vast expanse of the Kavir desert like a white stripe on the horizon. Behind them the sun was low and orange against the black ridge of the mountains. A few thin tortured looking trees were growing together not far from where they were standing, their leaves remarkably green against the mostly dry landscape.

He tugged on the bridle to get Khan's attention and the horse followed him in their direction. He knelt beside the depression in the bare earth and started to dig, water was not too deep and the earth was soft and crumbling. Khan's ears perked up and his nostrils flared at the scent of water.

Tharkay rubbed the sandy mud from his hands in a patch of dry grass. Then looked down at the hole where the horse was drinking. Tharkay pushed the horse away a let it fill again. He had a small pot among his things and he filled that before the horse greedily nosed his way back into the hole.

Tharkay watched his horse drink until the animal lifted its head and shook out its mane and snorted. Tharkay stretched raising his arms toward the yellowing sky. Khan snorted again and Tharkay pulled the saddle and the panniers off of his back. He frowned at the scrubby grasses as he moved to take the bridle off too. Khan shook his head when he was free and trotted away from him.

"I shan't chase you," Tharkay said, "If you get lost it's your own problem."

The horse stopped and looked at him before nosing into the sparse grass. Tharkay foraged while Khan was browsing, horsemen had come this way before. He gathered bits of dry grass and the hard, desiccated pieces of old horse dung for a small fire, placing the last of his bulgur in his pot with the water and then dug out his small pen case and his journal .

It was a fine thing, bound in leather with the letters 'GDDII' embossed on the cover. Something his father had insisted on as soon as Tharkay had been proficient enough in writing to warrant it. The first several pages were filled with a boyish scrawl and unsteady drawings, he must have been eight or nine when his father had presented him with the book. Tharkay thumbed the pages absently, Khan was rolling on the ground and it caught his attention.

Tharkay found an empty page and opened his pen case. He carefully recorded their path from Gazvin and noted the location of this watering hole. He checked the sun and the mountains and began sketching a rough map. Khan made a noise and Tharkay looked up from his record to see the horse standing very still ears up and nostrils flaring; sensing some unknown danger.

Tharkay stood and looked in the direction Khan's head was pointing. The horse snorted and stamped a warning. Tharkay started to walk toward his horse and then he saw it. It was a ways off and heading in another direction. A lean long legged feline walked head down and tail twitching, completely uninterested in the two of them. Khan turned, following the cheetah's movement. He stamped and snorted and finally reared bellowing out a challenge like a warhorse. The cheetah stopped and crouched for a moment and looked in their direction. Khan bellowed again and the big cat trotted away from them with more urgency.

Tharkay laughed at his little horse and went back to the fire to record seeing the cheetah there. He startled when a white leaf fell from the book onto his lap. It was a piece of rice paper stark white against his own dirty and travel browned hand. The leaf was folded in half, one side blank and the other a crudely scrawled Arabic alphabet. Tharkay stared at it, suddenly remembering what it was. His brow furrowed slightly and he tucked it back into the book.

**A/N:** _Thanks for reading! _

_No, Tharkay is not on his way to deliver that note to Laurence, this is several years before. He's about 22 or 23, though I don't think he even knows his real age._

_The proper word in Persian is Ingelesi, but I prefer the Afghani 'Angrizi'. (Means "You're English?)_

_Reviews/Comments welcome—especially if I stray too far off track._


	3. 3 Khorasan

_**Disclaimer: Several characters as well as this Alternate History were created by Naomi Novik. I'm just a fan, imitating.**_

**-3-**

**Khorasan**

_In which Tharkay rescues some sheep._

Tharkay chose to spend two nights in Mashhad, worried about the terrain that would soon become very difficult. Here he chose to rejoin the caravans-better to stay with a group than face an ambush of tribesmen alone.

In Mashhad he made the acquaintance of an old man and his wife who were planning to deliver their small herd of fat-tailed sheep. The animals were recently shorn and looked absurdly thin especially when their hindquarters were swollen with fat. The family's youngest son still lived with them and accompanied them on the journey. He was a lank youth who eyed Tharkay on his horse jealously. Golbahar, a sharp-eyed woman, with two small children, rode in the wagon with the old man's wife.

Dost Mohammed, as the patriarch was called, had had two sons. The eldest was married but was killed the previous year when they had come to Mashhad. That was why Golbahar and the children came with them.

Tharkay just listened to Dost Mohammed talk, only nodding when it was asked for. He contributed only enough information to relate their mutual need and so secure himself as part of the caravan. The old man seemed pleased to have someone other than women or children to talk to and Tharkay spent most of the first three days of their journey listening to Dost Mohammed's stories.

On the morning of the fourth day, Tharkay rose early; to help Ali, Mohammed's youngest son, round up the sheep. Ali and his old father were very agitated to find that three of their sheep were missing. They had a small herd, less than thirty animals; so three missing was a painful loss. Tharkay, not wanting to lose his place, saddled up Khan to find the sheep.

The other families in the caravan were already packing their things when Tharkay found the first two sheep. He herded them toward Dost Mohammed's wagon and yelled for Ali to get them before turning around to find the third.

He dropped down from his horse to examine the ground more carefully, and frowned. Khan grunted nervously. Tharkay rode ahead where the main body of the caravan was already moving and bought a sheep.

Dost Mohammed complained that the sheep Tharkay brought back wasn't his and Tharkay set the animal on the ground and kicked at it so that it joined the rest of Dost Mohammed's herd.

"_It is a sheep, baba_," he said, "_It makes no difference_."

"_Then maybe you can still find the other, and I will have more sheep_."

"_I found the other sheep_," Tharkay said. He was moving about the camp with Ali and his mother helping to strike their camp so they could catch up the rest of the caravan. He paused and pointed. "_There are a three very happy wolves over there_."

"_Y'Allah_," Dost Mohammed exclaimed.

"_We need to go_," Tharkay said and he kicked at the remains of the fire and grabbed Khan's dangling reins. He waited for the old man to climb up on his wagon and walked beside it leading Khan. Up ahead Ali and the sheep were already obscured by the dust of their passage.

After a while the old man chuckled, "_You give orders like a soldier_."

Tharkay glanced at him but said nothing, he was irritated at the late start, but he didn't want Mohammed to think him ungracious.

"_Are you a soldier, Tarkay-jan_?" Mohammed said a little loudly, probably thinking that Tharkay hadn't heard him.

"_No_," Tharkay said.

Dost Mohammed started telling a story about a friend he had who was a soldier in Nader Shah's army. Tharkay let him drone on for the better part of an hour before mounting Khan. He made the excuse of checking on Ali and the rest of the caravan and rode on ahead.

* * *

George David Drysdale stood inside the door to his father's study with his eyes trained on the floor at his father's feet and his face set in an impassive expression. The boy had grown taller than his proud father had hoped, well over five and a half feet already—and he was still very young. His skin was bronzed from a summer of riding and outdoors. He had always been an active boy with a penchant toward sports and athleticism, but having been all but banned from the nearby clubs, he learned to make due with solitary pursuits.

Today he'd come home with a swollen and blackening bruise on his cheek, which on a face that still looked innocent in its childishness, seemed incongruous and wicked. However it wasn't the injury that made the elder George call Geordie in for a lecture, but that Geordie had come home with severe accusations against his stepmother. She had come to him in tears over it.

"Sit down, George David," George said quietly, and his son met his eyes with his own. The boy looked scared and George was reminded painfully just how distant he and his son had become. "Do you know why you're here?"

"I don't know," Geordie said, "_She_ lies a lot."

George shook his head, "Don't be petulant. That's not how I've raised you."

Geordie's dark eyes held his in a defiant stare only to show him the subtle creeping fear growing in them before he could hide it by turning his gaze toward his lap.

"She saw this," the boy motioned toward the bruise, "and she asked me why I am always fighting. She said I had a problem in my nature, that I'm savage in blood and I cannot learn like other men…" Geordie looked at his father, "So I asked her if I should make myself stupid by emulating Edgar. I do so want to please her."

George's brows knit at the boy's sardonic tone but Geordie had his eyes fixed blankly toward his lap.

"Geordie," George said after some silence, "What happened? Who hit you?"

"It was Edgar, Da," Geordie said, "Same as always. But your wife won't believe me."

"Son you do make Edgar out to be this monster whose only purpose is to torment you. He's a good boy. I don't understand why you can't get along with him."

Geordie didn't answer or look up from his lap. But George noted the rise in color in his son's face and ears and the tightening of his jaw. George sighed.

"This argument with your mother—"

"Stepmother!"

"—yes, well I shouldn't hear of the like again. I was only gone for a month, I shouldn't have to come home to find you can't mind your tongue and you're fighting with your brother—"

"Stepbrother!"

"Regardless, they are your family. It isn't as if the arrangement is new. You are very smart Geordie, I know you know better. I can't begin to describe how disappointed I am in your behavior."

Geordie crossed his arms over his chest but continued to stare at his lap.

"Geordie," George said, "Just tell me you're sorry and I'll talk with your mother and calm—"

"I did nothing wrong," Geordie said, "I have no reason to lie. I don't know why you don't believe me. And she's as bad as he is. Worse even. You don't know what it's like when you leave."

"Geordie please, you are too old for histrionics. The best thing for now is to calm everyone down and realize that our problems are only small and unimportant," George put a hand on Geordie's shoulder, "I think you'll find where there's a conflict of personality, you can fix the problem by fixing yourself. You'll apologize to them at dinner."

George straightened his waistcoat and then walked out of the room, leaving his son to brood alone.

* * *

It took almost two days to catch up the rest of the caravan, and they only managed it on luck. Inwardly Tharkay thought it no wonder Dost Mohammed's son had been killed by bandits. The old man dragged the poor family around without much guidance and when mistakes were made he would only laugh and say, "Insha'Allah."

Tharkay wouldn't have minded it so much—he'd travelled with much worse before, and in worse circumstance—but the old man had taken to calling him '_Sar Lashkar_' and Ali, at his father's urging, had taken to saluting him. It was all very tiresome indeed.

The respite near the river wasn't very restful either. When they'd arrived most of the Caravan had moved on headed north into Samarkand. But another bustling horde of animals and people joined them some headed into Persia and others joining them on to Kandahar. Tharkay wondered now if he should've risked facing bandits alone in exchange for a bit of quiet and order.

Tharkay was walking alone; twenty-odd sheep effectively barricaded him against Ali. He had his hands on his belt and watching the mountains blue on the horizon. Real mountains, probably still covered in snow, if he were near enough to see—not like the constant rising and falling rocky formations they'd been passing through—or climbing. The landscape here was tiresome too.

Khan was tied to the wagon; let him listen to the old man's stories. Tharkay kicked at a sheep that strayed from the others. It bleated in protest and changed course. Tharkay was not very fond of sheep. He sighed into the dust and the heat. They would be in Kandahar soon enough.

Then the caravan halted. Tharkay felt a prick of anticipation. He shoved through the confused sheep and took Ali by the shoulder.

"_What happened_?"

"_I don't know_!" the boy answered annoyed at the crowded sheep.

Tharkay jogged up ahead to the next group and ducked beside a grunting camel. He peered into the fog of stirred dust and listened. He was too far away to see clearly, but beyond the small creaks and groans of the other wagons and the small complaints of the animals, the caravan was deathly quiet. A single voice cut in suddenly—barely audible from his vantage. He repeated the words under his breath—Pashtu.

Tharkay ran back to his caravan, shoving Ali toward the wagon. Dost Mohammed was protesting loudly.

"_Get inside_," Tharkay said, "_Bandits_."

The old man was still protesting from inside the wagon and one of the smaller children started crying. Tharkay climbed onto the driver's platform and urged the old ox pulling the wagon to turn off the road away from the rest of the caravan.

"_What about the sheep_!" Dost Mohammed shouted popping his head up right behind Tharkay. Tharkay just glared at him. "_Ali go! Run! Bring the sheep here_!"

"_Stay here_," Tharkay said. He stopped the wagon and jumped down. He went to Khan and removed the panniers from the horse's saddle he rifled through them while the women and children watched wide-eyed and the old man glared unhappily.

Tharkay did not care for guns—they could be more trouble than they're worth sometimes. But he kept the old flintlock anyway. If anything, it was good for a bit of noise. One of the women gasped as he unwrapped the gun from the bit of rag that he kept it in. Golbahar was leaning forward watching him load the thing with much curiosity. Tharkay's eye strayed once or twice toward the woman, who was still very pretty whatever the hardship that read on her face.

"_Stay here_," he repeated once more. He left Khan near the wagon and strode back toward the rest of the caravan, and the damnable sheep.

The caravan was in complete disarray. The merchants and farmers traveling with the group had offered little resistance. Dost Mohammed's sheep, however, stayed relatively unmolested at the edge of the fray. Tharkay slid around to the other side of the rock he'd hid behind and jogged the rest of the way down toward the sheep. Sliding once or twice in the loose scree on the slope. This might go more easily than he thought.

He started shoving the sheep coaxing them to follow the way he'd driven the wagon. He grumbled to himself about leaving Khan by the wagon though they were moving in the right direction. Tharkay cursed again when he saw Ali come around to help with his father right behind him. Just then one of the bandits rode up behind Tharkay. The man, bearded and wearing a dark turban was waving a rusty sword in the air and screaming at them in Pashtu.

Tharkay's Pashtu wasn't very good at all, but he got the gist of it. This man wanted the three of them to join the others. Dost Mohammed stepped forward to shout something back at him in Pashtu. Tharkay waited for the old man to finish, then he aimed his pistol and fired.

Dost Mohammed said, "Insha'Allah."

Ali stared.

Tharkay was already shoving the man off of his horse. He mounted and herded the sheep and his charges back to their wagon.

* * *

**A/N:** _They're in Afghanistan and at that time it's been Afghanistan for a couple of years. But I liked 'Khorasan' and it's not like the common people worried so much over what the new name was—nor did they have Google to figure it out. ._

_Reviews/Comments welcome—especially if I stray too far off track._


	4. 4 Kandahar

_**Disclaimer: Several characters as well as this Alternate History were created by Naomi Novik. I'm just a fan, imitating.**_

**-4-**

**Kandahar**

_In which Tharkay relieves a damsel of her distress._

He sat on the bandit's horse, one hand still holding his pistol and the other gripping the animal's mane. Ali was very somberly kicking at the sheep to keep them together. Dost Mohammed was glaring at him. But Tharkay wasn't going to move. He was going to get to Kandahar even if the only caravan he showed up with had one wagon and twenty-odd sheep. The seconds passed so very slowly and still no one followed them to their hiding place. Tharkay kicked the horse forward several feet away from the wagon and busied his hands checking and then reloading his gun. The powder he had was getting dangerously low.

"_You should help the others_," Dost Mohammed said finally. Tharkay turned to look at him; the rest of the family was staring back also.

Tharkay looked at the gun in his hand. He wasn't going to fight anyone off by himself. He heard the old man's raspy voice talking to someone, his wife perhaps, but he couldn't make out the words. One of the women shouted a protest and Tharkay turned back to see the old man coming toward him carrying an ancient long gun gaudily decorated.

"_Stay here_," Tharkay hissed at him.

"_Bi-sharmat_," Dost Mohammed said and spat as walked past him toward the road.

Tharkay opened his mouth to protest but decided against it. He dropped down from the horse and followed the old man instead.

"_You're afraid_," the old man said when Tharkay caught up to him.

"_I'm trying to keep you and your family safe_," Tharkay replied. What did this old fool know about him anyway? The old man made a derisive noise.

"_If you want to run away, take your horse and go_," Dost Mohammed said.

Tharkay frowned and quickened his pace.

Back on the road the bandit he'd shot was still lying on the ground writhing on the spot he'd fallen. Tharkay stooped to check on him. The round had gone through the man's shoulder and he was hissing and gasping with pain. Tharkay stood and dragged the man up with him. Dost Mohammed pointed the gun at the bandit.

"_No_," Tharkay said. He shoved the man forward and put the muzzle of his pistol between the man's shoulder blades. "_Go_," Tharkay said.

As they walked the sound of arguing and shouting reached them well before the caravan was in view. The other bandits had taken what they wanted and gone off. The travelers—merchants and farmers and their families—were sitting around beaten. Two men were shouting at each other, one wanting to continue to Kandahar and the other wanted to go after the thieves. Tharkay shoved his captive forward right into the middle of the group he eyed two bodies stretched out on the road. One was a bandit and the other was a boy.

The argument stopped abruptly. Tharkay looked around at them and they stared back at him, he shoved at the bandit again and he whimpered into the stunned silence. One of the men who'd been shouting stepped forward. He was very tall and his white turban was wrapped so it lifted in the front. His shalwar was stained from the dirt of the road but he carried himself with a dignity and supremacy that spoke to his sense of entitlement and authority.

"_Dost Mohammed, Agha_," the man said, addressing the old man and sparing only a contemptuous glance at Tharkay, "_Where is your family_?"

"_They are hidden_," Dost Mohammed said, "_They are safe. Tarkay Agha, hid the wagons before the dogs could find us_."

"_Then you are lucky, baba_," the man said, "_Some of us have lost the most precious of cargo—_"

"_We will lose more still if we run into the desert after them. We should go on to Kandahar, Insha'Allah_," the other man interjected. He was younger and very fat. He was bare headed and wore a lavish weskit of purple. It caught Tharkay's eye and he wondered how the fat man had kept so tidy on this road.

"_If it were your daughter you would be begging us to go in after her," _the tall man shouted back, "_If Allah wills that she die, I would be the one to do it rather than have her dishonored by those men_."

"_Why don't you just take her back then_?" Tharkay said, he didn't think the girl should be killed just because she got herself taken.

"_You_," The tall man said, "_Are you Hazara_?"

"_No_," Tharkay said. Then Dost Mohammed stepped forward to stand next to him.

"_Tarkay Agha is traveling with us_," he said. The old man paused and looked at Tharkay, "_He is Chinese, and he is going back home_."

Tharkay had to bite the inside of his lip to stop himself grinning. Dost Mohammed sure liked his stories. The tall man was still staring at him, but it was the fat man who spoke up.

"_My friend_," he said to Tharkay, "_surely you see no need for us to delay any longer_?"

Tharkay looked at him and then the bandit he had captive shouted and tried to run away. Tharkay grabbed him by the arm and the bandit screamed and Tharkay whacked him with the pommel of his pistol. The man dropped to his knees moaning and muttering under his breath. Both men seemed very impressed by this and Tharkay frowned, this did not bode very well for him.

He looked at the fat man and said, "_I just want to get to Kandahar_."

"_You'll help me find those bandits_," the tall man said, "_we must protect Fatimeh's honor_!"

Tharkay frowned; he wanted to say that they really ought to keep going then, if they were less concerned with the girl than they were for her honor. But he kept silent, only sparing a glance at Dost Mohammed beside him. There was an eager glint in the old man's eye.

* * *

"Geordie, what do you reckon the snow is made of?"

"Water," he said and pointed up at the old tree where icicles had formed in the night.

"Oh!" Eliza said, "They're so pretty! Could you get one? Can you reach it?"

Geordie looked at his little sister, "It's only water. And it will only melt away if I—"

"Please Geordie?" she said, and he tugged on the tree branch and broke off an icicle.

Her eyes shone as she held it in her mittened hand turning it in the weak winter light. Geordie took her other hand and they walked toward the road. Eventually it stopped snowing though the sky remained steely and gray.

"Are we going to the village?" Eliza asked and Geordie nodded.

She talked while they walked, chattering about a bit of embroidery she was working on and things Martha says when she is tired and of a promise of some trinket she'd asked father to get—the things important to a little girl. Geordie was content to listen to her ramble.

The other children who were playing on the village green had already trampled the fresh snow. Eliza left Geordie to join her friends, a laughing group of girls all red-faced from running about in the cold. He stood back at the edge of the green and watched the others play.

"George!" It was an older boy, Thomas, that he sometimes shared lessons with. Thomas's father was a lawyer that worked in three or four of the towns nearby. But Geordie's father wasn't one to stand in the way if someone pleaded for an education. Thomas only a year or two older than Geordie but he'd already started to fill in about his shoulders and stood a head taller than Geordie.

Thomas ran up to him and threw a handful of snow at him. Geordie grinned and stooped to gather his own snowball. He stood to launch his missile but Thomas was backing away and shaking his head.

"What are you doing here?" It was Edgar, his stepbrother.

"They just got here," Thomas said.

"I didn't ask you, Mr. Kerr," Edgar said, "George, does mother know you've gone out and brought Liza with you?"

Geordie glared at him mutely.

"Liza!" Edgar called out never taking his eyes off Geordie. "Liza!"

Eliza came to glare at her big brother with the other girls still gathered with her.

"What Edgar!" she said.

"It's too cold for you to be out here," Edgar said, "and mother wouldn't be happy to hear you're behaving like that in the village."

"I'm just playing with my friends!" Eliza protested.

Geordie threw his snowball and it hit Edgar in the face.

"How dare you—" Edgar started but Thomas threw another. Eliza laughed and she threw another and the little girls standing near her giggled and squealed. Edgar's face purpled and he lunged at Geordie with deadly malice.

He grabbed the boy by the collar and spun him around and Geordie lost his balance and fell into the snow. Edgar stood over him as Geordie stood and dusted the snow and grime from his coat.

"I don't want to fight you," Geordie said coldly defiant.

"What's your problem Edgar?" Thomas said and he stood beside Geordie. Edgar howled at the two boys.

"Big man Geordie," he was still laughing, "and you brought your little friend, too."

Then he lunged and grabbed Geordie by his coat and pulled the boy up, then he spun him so that Geordie's head pointed at the trampled and muddied snow.

"Stop it," Thomas said impotently, and Eliza started to wail. The other children had abandoned them. Geordie's face was turning red as the blood rushed into his face. As he struggled Edgar shook him and the harder he tried to get away the more roughly he was shook.

"You're a devil!" Edgar was saying, all the while he laughed and shook the boy, "Little China devil!"

"Stop!" Thomas said again.

Edgar let Geordie slip and the boy let out a muffled cry as he went face first into the dirty snow. Geordie's struggling grew suddenly more erratic, more desperate. Edgar laughed and then lifted him up again. Geordie was panting and he muttered under his breath.

"What's that?" Edgar said, "Did you say 'have mercy'?"

"Go home Thomas," Geordie said. He tried to lift his head and shoulders to relieve the pressure in his face. Edgar just shook him some more.

Thomas frowned and he took Eliza by the shoulder and lead her away. All the while she wailed and called for Geordie.

Edgar shoved his face into the snow again. This time he held him until Geordie stopped flailing and then he let go of Geordie's legs and let him drop into the snow. Edgar left the boy gasping and cradling his head and walked away. And Geordie, who didn't understand what had happened bit his lip to quiet a sob that threatened to escape.

* * *

The tall one was called Rahim and he followed along behind Tharkay on the bandit's stolen horse. Tharkay was leading Khan and looking at the pebbly ground. The rest of the caravan had packed up and moved on without them. Exactly as Tharkay had been worried would happen.

"_Do you see their signs_?" Rahim asked. He didn't trouble to hide his mistrust of the 'Chinaman' dressed in ferengi clothing. Tharkay looked out into the desert ahead of them, but didn't answer. He was still angry that Rahim had killed the prisoner. That man could've led them straight there.

He climbed up on Khan's back and started forward again. Rahim muttered derisively in an undertone and then kicked his horse into a gallop to keep up with Khan. Tharkay didn't have to turn his head to know that the big man was closing and then coming alongside him. Tharkay's hands tightened on his rein and nothing else.

"_Are you certain we're going the right way_?" Rahim said, demanding now.

"_We'll see_," Tharkay replied and he could almost feel the consternation roll off of his companion. Tharkay smiled a little in his subtle way.

Rahim reached one of his big arms over and grabbed at Khan's bridle and the little horse bellowed in protest. Tharkay leaned over and kicked at him. Both horses stopped, tossing their heads nervously at being crowded so.

"_Are you mad_?" Tharkay shouted.

"_You are trying to trick me_," Rahim shouted back.

"_I'm doing as you asked_," Tharkay hissed back and he pointed, "_You see, they are right in front of us._"

Rahim squinted in the direction Tharkay indicated, and then glared back at him, "_I cannot tell_."

They just stared at each other.

"_If we stay here fighting, they'll get away_," Tharkay said finally. He tugged the rein and Khan lifted his head to untangle himself from the other horse. Tharkay started forward again. He kept his eyes trained on the distant stirring of dust and urged Khan on. Rahim must've deliberated because there were a few minutes of delay before Tharkay could hear the other horse behind him.

Rahim didn't speak again for several hours as Tharkay led them through the open desert. Once they paused so that Tharkay could check the trail, but otherwise they rode forward steadily until the sun started to sink behind the craggy, scrub covered hills and the light deepened into evening.

"_Tarkay_," Rahim said, "_We should stop. Before it gets dark_."

Tharkay squinted at the horizon shading his eyes from the over-bright yellow light with a hand.

"_No_," he said, "_We're getting close, and they will stop soon. If we stop now, we'll never find them_."

They pushed forward. After the sun set it grew colder and all trace of the other riders was gone. Tharkay let Khan walk and soon Rahim was beside him again. Tharkay was glad that he couldn't read the man's face in the dark.

"_You're lost_," Rahim said.

Tharkay said nothing, he was starting to doubt himself too. But he kept going and they continued another hour after the sun set and full night was nearly upon them. Tharkay stopped and dismounted. He stretched his legs and his back and when he stood Rahim was also dismounted and towering over him. Tharkay pointed before the man could say anything.

Less than five hundred yards away the orange light of a small fire outlined the walls of a shallow ravine. If it weren't for Rahim's ragged breathing just over his shoulder, Tharkay was sure he'd be able to hear their voices carry.

"_How can you be certain it's them_?"

Tharkay shrugged and started walking toward the ravine. As he walked he pulled out his pistol and checked it. It probably wouldn't fire again, he thought, turning the thing over in his hands. They'd used his last round to kill the bandit and the amount of powder he had would not be enough for another round. He checked his back, under the jacket he wore was the blade his uncle had given him. Tharkay dropped to his belly at the edge of the ravine and peered down at the small group huddled around the weak little fire.

They were laughing—probably about the day's exploits—but Tharkay hadn't had a good look at them earlier and he couldn't be sure they were the same men. He waved Rahim over and the man grunted as he too lowered himself to the ground. Rahim gasped and Tharkay had to steady him with a hand and then he saw what Rahim was angry about.

One of them had a little girl on his lap. She was wrapped in a blanket and he was stroking her head, whispering to her. She sat there calmly but even at their distance Tharkay could see firelight glint off the tears still on her cheeks. Rahim cursed under his breath.

There were five men in the group, most of them about his age with short black beards and ragged turbans. Tharkay's knowledge of Pashtu was very limited, but he understood enough to learn that they were still angry about losing the other man.

He studied the rest of the camp, no tents but six horses tethered nearby, they couldn't have taken very much. Rahim muttered under his breath about their lack of honor and Tharkay—not wanting to take up anymore time with the errand—stood up and fired his pistol.

He was right, not enough powder to get the ball very far out of the muzzle. But it was good for a bit of noise. Tharkay threw the weapon at the nearest man's face while they were still looking around shocked and was already sliding into the ravine, blade in hand, before they started to stir.

Tharkay ran straight into their huddle kicking at the small fire so that it flared and burst into a small shower of sparks before going out. He swung his blade and it caught the light wickedly in the final throes of the small fire. He caught one man in the belly with the butt of it and swung it forward to slash another across the chest. The little girl was screaming and Tharkay shoved the heel of his hand into her captors face and she put her arms around his neck.

Tharkay ran, angry when he realized that Rahim never went in after him. The girl was squeezing his neck so tightly, he almost choked and her soft cheek, still wet with tears, was pressed so hard to his face he had to cock his head at an awkward angle.

Rahim, finally letting his presence be known, called to him. He was still at the top of the ravine running alongside Tharkay. Tharkay turned and pried the frightened girl's arms open so he could get her up to her father. Rahim grabbed her and immediately turned to find their horses.

Tharkay started climbing up the steep gravely slope and already had an arm up on the landing to lever himself up when he felt arms wrap around his thighs. He shouted once for Rahim before the man grabbing him slipped and pulled Tharkay down with him.

* * *

**A/N:** _The flashbacks scenes are not in any exact order, sorry. Somehow it makes sense to me._

_Reviews/Comments welcome._


	5. 5 Kabulistan

_**Disclaimer: Several characters as well as this Alternate History were created by Naomi Novik. I'm just a fan, imitating.**_

**-5-**

**Kabulistan**

_In which Tharkay arrives in Kabul._

Tharkay was withdrawn as he and Rahim rode into Kandahar. Both horses hung their heads from want of food and water and the men and their charge not much better off. Rahim left Tharkay at the well with both horses and not even the slightest word of gratitude. The girl, much to Tharkay's dismay, had only been nine or ten. So he wouldn't even have a good story to tell for all that. And he'd given her his jacket, and she balked when Rahim tried to return it. These things never seemed to go very smoothly.

Tharkay sat on the ground with his back to the smooth mud-plastered sides of the well and covered his face in his hands. There were several women there drawing water for their camels and he let their chatter and the noisy grunts of the camels drown out the tired and half-formed thoughts in his head.

He startled awake to find bright, late-morning sunlight burning his eyes. Tharkay covered his face with his hands and groaned and then he felt the kick to his ribs that had brought him awake in the first place.

"What? Leave me alone," he muttered in English, still half-asleep.

"_What did you say_?" Dost Mohammed repeated. Tharkay sat up and cursed inwardly for letting his guard down.

"_I'm not Chinese_!" Dost Mohammed said and chuckling, offered Tharkay his hand. Tharkay smiled weakly in relief and the old man chuckled.

"_If you say things in Chinese, I won't understand_," Dost Mohammed said and he eyed Tharkay critically. Tharkay followed the old man's gaze. His shirt had been torn and bloodied—and it hadn't been in the best condition to begin with. Tharkay glanced around for his jacket before remembering that he'd given it away. He checked his belt and found the hilt of his blade and relaxed.

"_Come_," Dost Mohammed said, "_You must rest. It is still a long way to Kabul_."

Tharkay started to follow the old man and then stopped to look for his horse and was so relieved to see Ali following behind them leading both horses and smiling, that Tharkay returned the smile.

"_Golbahar's family lives here_," Dost Mohammed said, "_So you are lucky that we are staying for a few days. She will not be coming with us to Kabul_."

Tharkay nodded at the bit of news but said nothing. He was surprised when the old man chuckled and took his arm. "_Unless, of course, you would like her to come to Kabul with us_."

Tharkay must have made a face because the old man started laughing and he said, "_That Golbahar, Masha'allah_."

Golbahar's father had died years before, and the house they were staying at belonged to her uncle. Tharkay almost pitied the man, as he lived with his wife and three daughters, his mother, two grown sisters, and was now adding Golbahar and her two children (both girls) to the household. Tharkay never learned the man's name, but everyone called him Hajji-Agha, and that worked well enough for him.

When they'd arrived at the low, mud-bricked building with a flat roof and several goats tethered in the dusty yard, Hajji-Agha was immediately glad to see Tharkay. He had raised his arms and offered Tharkay a hug and directed most of his friendly hospitality toward him. Even in his famished and over-exhausted state, Tharkay found the energy to be a little perturbed by it.

Golbahar seemed immediately at ease among her closer relatives; she greeted Tharkay at the door and even though she raised her hand to draw up the edge of her veil to cover her mouth and nose, Tharkay could've sworn she'd smiled at him.

Tharkay joined the two elder men in the main compartment of the house where they sat upon cushions and Golbahar served them very dark tea in small miss-matched glasses. Familiar with the ritual, Tharkay took a piece of rock sugar and held it between his teeth, and drank the small glass of tea like a shot. Hajji-Agha grinned at him and did the same.

Tharkay was tired. So very tired. He'd been almost two months on the road and his foray into the desert to battle tribesmen had not been an exertion he'd expected. After all, he'd joined the caravan to avoid that kind of encounter. Dost Mohammed was arguing with Hajji-Agha and Tharkay shot a few dark glances his direction furtively while taking a second glass of tea.

In his state it was difficult to follow their conversation and Tharkay stood abruptly. He swayed slightly.

"_My dear_," Hajji-Agha said, with a disconcerting familiarity, "_My apologies, my friend. But you must rest. Golbahar_!"

The woman poked her head in from where she and the other women were sitting and took her order from her father. She led Tharkay through another room with carpets laid on the floor and a smattering of domestics—clothing to be darned and wool to be spun—pushed to the side and from there to another chamber separated by a curtain. The chamber was small and rather bare, save for a small straw pallet and a basin for washing. Along one wall, right under a small window hung with bells, were several baskets and linens and on the floor near the pallet—much to his sudden relief—the panniers he'd left with Dost Mohammed's wagon. He sat on the pallet and dragged the bags toward him.

"_Agha_," Golbahar said averting her gaze, "_Are you hungry_?"

"_I am_," he said and under his breath, "_I feel I may die of it soon_."

Golbahar snorted and muttered something about men under her breath. Tharkay lay down and put his arm over his face to block out the light and before Golbahar turned around he was immediately asleep.

* * *

George Drysdale glanced out of his window to see his son, Geordie, dismount and leave the old pot-bellied carthorse to a hand before entering the house with his books and papers. He turned back to the letter he was writing only to be interrupted by a crash in the rooms below. George stood quickly and went downstairs to see.

Edgar, his stepson, and Geordie were standing side by side near the kitchen door. Both of them stared back at him silently. Geordie's ears were colored but he showed no outward sign of emotion. Edgar had his hands clasped behind his back and had his head cocked back defiantly.

"Good day, sir," Edgar said. George studied them reproachfully. Edgar was almost five years Geordie's senior and had already reached his adult height, standing head and shoulders above Geordie. He was quite stout, partly due to his own father who had also been a large man, and partly for his penchant for drink. Geordie looked small beside him, being so much shorter and gracile in figure, all angles and bones in his youth. Geordie was also cursed with a very round childish face that exacerbated the slant of his dark eyes and depicted him more as a boy of twelve than fourteen.

"What happened here?" George said he looked around and saw Geordie's books and papers scattered in the doorway.

"Nothing father," Edgar said and reached over to muss Geordie's hair, "The wee one's a bit clumsy."

"Geordie?" George said turning a stern eye on his son. Geordie met his glare only for a moment and then shrugged before bending to pick up his things. He gathered them quickly and then ran for the stairs stopping only at his father's command. He stopped but did not turn to look at him.

"Geordie," Edgar said, daring him, "You listen to your father. Don't you lie to him."

George put up a hand to silence Edgar, "Geordie, what's the matter here?"

"Nothing's the matter," Geordie said without looking at them, "I should get these in order."

Geordie was gone before George could say anything further. He turned to Edgar and said, "Don't be so hard on him, Edgar." His tone had been almost pleading and Edgar frowned a little.

"I'm going to the village, father," Edgar said, "I don't expect to be in for dinner."

"You would do better to spend your time in learning to manage this estate," George said, "We are not very wealthy people and our titles small, you should not waste your time—"

"Good day, father," Edgar said and walked out the door.

George shook his head and rubbed a hand across his forehead. He was at a loss; Edgar could not be controlled and was quickly giving himself over to sloth and drink. He was throwing away his life.

"I suppose that is the problem with natural children," one of his colleagues had remarked to him while he was in Edinburgh and foolishly relaying his frustrations over a pint in a tavern after a long day of loftier discussions. "You can't know the character of the child if you don't know the father."

The rationalization of it did not solve his problem with Edgar, and George ascended the stairs worried that in turning his effort and energy to correcting his stepson, he was letting the younger son, his own flesh and blood, be ignored.

"Hello Da!" George's young daughter Eliza stopped him at the landing. She was a bright dimpled creature with her mother's freckles and his own pale blue eyes. He smiled at her tenderly.

"There now girl," he said with mirth in his voice, "What have you been doing today?"

"Mother showed me how to make a flower!" she held up a ribbon for him to see. It had been stitched with bits of green and lavender in thick clumps representing leaves and petals.

"Well that is lovely," George said.

"Geordie said it was like a real flower," Eliza said, "I'm going to show it to Martha."

George smiled at that and watched her skip merrily down the stairs. He walked down the corridor to Geordie's room and knocked. Geordie opened the door and stood back to let him enter.

Geordie returned immediately back to the small writing desk near the window in his room and continued sorting his papers.

"Geordie, I'm sorry," George said and Geordie paused in his work. He only waited a moment before continuing. George didn't know what to say and so he stood there quietly. After several long minutes Geordie glanced up to see his father still standing there.

"Mary was there today with us," Geordie said finally, "and Thomas very rudely wanted to discuss Linnaeus." Geordie looked at his father directly as if he could elaborate with a look. George was reminded of Lhakpa's dark stare, the eyes a deep shade of brown almost black.

"Linnaeus is a fool," George said, "To classify men with apes is to say that God created apes in his image. It's sacrilege." Geordie only shrugged.

"Does Mary attend your lessons often?" George asked.

"No," Geordie said, "She tells me though that her aunt sends her because of me. Thomas said that perhaps two half-breds might produce normal children," Geordie's mouth twisted sardonically, "Or perhaps a proper savage."

"I should start you in Edinburgh," George said shaking his head.

"I thought perhaps," Geordie hesitated and studied his father's face, "I wanted to ask you if I could go to India—with the Company."

"Geordie," George frowned and concern knotted his brows, "Don't be so quick to run off into the world."

"I'm not a child, Da," Geordie said, "I would so like to see the place where I was born. To travel as Mary's father has done—like you have done."

"You're still too young for—"

"Men go off for sailors much younger than I, and the Aerial Corps—"

"No," George said, "I'm not sending you for the military."

"But with your recommendation, I'm sure I would not be a soldier."

"And with your face you would be asked to do nothing else," George said, Geordie's ears reddened and he turned back to his papers. George was sorry to have said it, not because it was wrong to remind him, but only because it upset him.

* * *

The wagon and the old ox had to stay in Kandahar because the mountains of Kabulistan were rough even for a good wagon. So Tharkay lead his horse most of the way so that he could walk near the family. Khan, having recovered much after two nights in Kandahar, would snort and wave his head impatiently but Tharkay—whose stay in Kandahar had proven far more stressful—was not nearly so sanguine.

The other horse had been loaded up with the family's luggage and Ali kept an acquisitive hold on its rein. Tharkay wasn't planning to take on another horse anyway. The sheep bounced along the steadily rising mountain roads.

Dost Mohammed hadn't spoken to him since their departure. He had been very happy after goading him into the rescue but something fell through at Hajji-Agha's home. But Tharkay was almost to Kabul and the end of their tiresome companionship, and he didn't think about it.

Between her father and father-in-law, Golbahar had been thrust upon Tharkay. After all, with the children, all she could bring to either side of the family were those three extra mouths to feed. At her age, and already a mother, she was not likely to marry again. Some men might have been flattered, but Tharkay didn't like to think about things like that.

The old man and his family might have interpreted his reticence as remorse or some other contemplation in their regard, but no, he was thinking about his horse.

He was already behind schedule, and he had business in Kabul that could take the better part of a week. The next leg of his journey would take him into the Pamirs and then he had a choice. He could brave the Taklimakan again or he could follow the Kunlun Sham into the Himalaya to the south. Either way, he'd have to leave the spirited little horse behind, what with the dragons and all.

So Tharkay considered his dilemma, while Dost Mohammed would throw a look of disappointment his way, and no one talked very much.

Tharkay was very surprised when the old man embraced him just before they parted ways in the city. Ali too seemed very upset to see him leave them for the last time but thanked him again for the horse. Dost Mohammed said something about Allah guiding and protecting him and it was all very Koranic and Tharkay was never a gifted student of Arabic. In a small fit of compunction, Tharkay offered the rest of his dates as a parting gift, and was done with it.

He spent the rest of the day in the market comparing items and estimating his needs before leading Khan to a large house in the city. The high walls of the courtyard surrounded not just the manor and its immediate grounds, but a private stable, baths and a garden with peacocks. Tharkay waited patiently near the sentry box while the man standing guard eyed him suspiciously.

Hassan came to the gate himself to receive him.

"Mister Tharkay!" he said in blustery, heavily accented English. "You've arrived. I was beginning to worry, my friend."

Tharkay took his panniers while a hand led Khan away and Hassan took him by the elbow and led him inside. Hassan was very squat man, fat and short, and he walked with somewhat of a waddle. He kept his beard trimmed very short and his balding head uncovered. He was an Arab, who dealt in metals and precious stones among other things, and had built up quite a fortune with trade. Luxury tended to be rather more affordable in Kabul and being that much of his business came out of the region, he'd made his home there.

Tharkay was treated with the utmost courtesy in Hassan's house, a room for him to rest, a bath if he needed, a girl if he wanted. Tharkay never minded too much when his travels brought him to Kabul.

* * *

**A/N:** _You never know someone until you travel with them. 22Jul2012-Edited for grammatical errors._

_Reviews/Comments welcome—thanks for reading.._


	6. 6 The Request

_**Disclaimer: Several characters as well as this Alternate History were created by Naomi Novik. I'm just a fan, imitating.**_

**-6-**

**The Request**

_In which Tharkay is asked to lead a very special caravan to Kathmandu._

Hassan liked to call himself the 'Sultan of Kabul', but Tharkay wondered if anyone outside of his gate had even heard of that. Though the merchant's wealth went far in a city like Kabul, away from the trappings of greater civilization, there were many signs that the show the man presented was really nothing more than that.

Even now as Tharkay stared about the room, the aura of derelict luxury revealed itself in myriad telltale ways. The way lacquer peeled from gilded furniture—built out of wood not quite suited for building—the pieces loosened at their joints made by hands not trained as thoroughly to the task, and gold trimming that was really made of brass. The hangings and draperies were dusty and fading and the carpets were worn thin in some places. There was no glass in the windows and beneath the layers of plaster the house was made of the same mud brick as every other building in the city. Still, it was better than sleeping in the dirt.

Tharkay lay in the room—it was not very large—but larger than any room he'd ever claimed for himself. He'd bathed and since he'd lost his jacket and his shirt was in a desperate state, he'd been given a plain white shalwar qamis—not unlike the usual dress he'd seen in the Mughal cities in India.

The bed was comfortable enough though the mattress was stuffed with straw at least the pillows were full of down. As he stared up at the ceiling, tallying in his head the supplies he'd need on the next part of his journey, he was distracted by a cobweb swinging in the light breeze from the window. Then someone entered his room.

Tharkay sat up abruptly and seeing whom it was lay back down. She was about his age and tall, probably taller than he, and carrying a bowl of fruit.

"_What took you so long, Subhana_?" he said staring at the ceiling again.

"_You are rude today_," she said huffily and set the bowl on the rickety bedside table and climbed over him to an empty spot on the bed. She was wearing a gauzy thing in purple with beading along the neckline. Tharkay grabbed her round the hips and pulled her back on top of him.

"_Have you missed me_?" he said looking into her large dark eyes. Subhana flipped her hair which she wore long and unrestrained in tumbling mass of dark waves. She smelled like rosewater. Tharkay didn't mind rosewater as long as it was not in his food.

"_You're never away long enough_," she said and smiled at her chiding him. She moved away from him again slinking across the bed on all fours like a cat. Tharkay reached over and grabbed her leg just below the calf and she started giggling girlishly.

The door opened again and Tharkay drew up his head and shoulders to glare at the intruder. It was Hassan. Tharkay let go of Subhana's leg and sat up.

"_A thousand apologies, my friend_," Hassan said and his small piggy eyes followed the woman's retreat to the other side of the bed, "_I hope I am not disturbing you_?"

Tharkay thought it was rather apparent that they'd been disturbed but he betrayed none of his annoyance when he answered with a very laconic, "_No_."

"_If you would be so kind my friend, and come to my office_," Hassan said and he left the room but not before one last lingering look at Subhana.

Tharkay turned and grabbed a mealy little apple from the fruit bowl surreptitiously throwing her a wink before following Hassan out the door.

Tharkay caught up the waddling little man in the open corridor. They were on the second floor of the house and Tharkay watched the first floor where the corridor looked down on the big front doors to the house. A man had come in, another Arab by the look of him, but Tharkay could not catch enough of his brief exchange with the footman to learn his name.

Hassan turned into the office and had to grab Tharkay's elbow to stop him from continuing along the corridor.

The office was a very grand affair, designed to show away to any number of interested traders and clients from any of the countries that traded on the routes from Egypt to China—and often many points beyond—the wealth and prestige of the 'Sultan of Kabul'. Tharkay had been in this room on a number of occasions; that and being less inclined to gape than most men, accounted for his very direct and indifferent glide into a chair in front of Hassan's very imposing desk.

Tharkay finished his apple while watching Hassan shuffle some papers and maps to one side before sitting opposite him. Hassan folded his many ringed hands on the desk and smiled at Tharkay who was sitting low in the chair with his left ankle resting on his right knee chewing his apple carefully and with a very bland expression.

"_She is always asking after you_," Hassan said and then cleared his throat, "_But I am glad you are here, my friend_."

Tharkay continued to stare back at the man and when he was certain Tharkay would not be coaxed into curiosity Hassan said, "_I have a great store of wood and salt going to Kathmandu_."

Tharkay nodded.

"_But my man is fallen ill_," Hassan said starting to look a little nervous, "_I have no one to supervise its transport._"

"_That's unfortunate_," Tharkay said.

"_It is, my friend, it is_," Hassan said his brows creased solemnly, "_Did you not say you would be going that way yourself?"_

"_I'm sure I did not_," Tharkay said and regarded the apple core in his hand with much interest.

"_But surely, you will find that it is on your route_," Hassan said.

"_My route, I travel alone_," Tharkay said, "_I should not like to think what would become of a camel train through that passage_."

"_Camels will die in those mountains_," Hassan said smiling, "_just like the Hindu people_."

"_Do you mean to have your goods ported by men?_" Tharkay asked mildly. Hassan laughed rather forcefully at what he perceived as a jest.

"_I have a dragon train, they will be arriving at the staging ground in two weeks time. I need someone who knows those mountains to get them to Kathmandu_."

"_I'm very sorry to say, that I know of no one that can accomplish such a feat_," Tharkay shrugged and added, "_as such I can give you no recommendation_."

Hassan shook his head nervously and it made his jowls quiver, "_I am asking you, Tharkay. My friend._"

"_It is out of my way, Agha_," Tharkay said, "_I'm sorry_."

But Tharkay was not sorry at all, and he ate his apple core and sat smug in his chair while Hassan looked worriedly at his own reflection in the lacquered desk.

"_Mister Tharkay_," Hassan began anew and his tone had slipped from cajoling to outright begging, "_Surely you can see that this arrangement will benefit the both of us? My friend, I have shown you much kindness here in my humble palace_."

"_Are you tired with our other arrangement then_?" Tharkay stood and Hassan raised his arms pleadingly.

"_Not in the least_," he said, "_I would not ask this of you if I had any other choice, believe me. But I must get these goods to Kathmandu, and I haven't any one else to ask_."

Tharkay scratched his ear but did not sit down, "_Is it just wood and salt? Certainly there is salt traded there already?_"

Hassan only smiled and lifted a large map from several rolled up and piled at the foot of his desk. He unrolled onto the desk and weighted one end with a book and the other with a jade statue of an elephant with an upturned trunk.

"_They are meeting here_," he indicated with a large, hairy, bejeweled hand—that seemed somehow effeminate in spite, or maybe because of the rings, "_And landing in the valley here. It is only a journey of two days by dragon_."

"_And how much will you pay me for that? I assume you will also want me to travel with the goods into Sarikol_?" Tharkay crossed his arms and Hassan rubbed his hands together and smiled.

"_Sit down, my friend_," he said.

* * *

In the end George decided to let the boy go. Thomas Kerr, the son of Jonathan Kerr, a lawyer in the village, was also going, and at least his son would be traveling with someone he was familiar, if not friends, with. He'd struggled with the decision for months and had determined in one respect only to turn around and revoke his permission.

Thomas would do well in the Company, George reckoned, though a tradesman's son of no great consequence, Thomas was easy going and smart. He was a year older than George's own son, also George, and hearty in spirit and body—already possessing the height of a man and the beginnings of a beard. He would have no trouble at all.

Geordie, however, he worried about. Notwithstanding the boy's Eurasian heritage, George felt he'd succeeded very well in bringing the boy up with every possible advantage he could give, and one could hardly claim that the boy was stupid or uncivilized. But young George was a quiet boy, and his tendency to restraint did lead others to think him sullen or inattentive; perhaps shy or surly even, and George distressed greatly about letting his only true son into so unforgiving a world as the Residency Towns could be.

George had taken great precaution in the matter, having sent letters of introduction to any man he could claim even the slightest connection, and taking care to provide him copies of many of them, should the boy need help in some way. If he could've accompanied his son to India he would have.

To complicate matters, Geordie seemed to lag behind most of his peers in regards to his growth and appearance; and though the boy was very nearly sixteen, he still possessed the round face of a much younger child and was inclined to be rather thin.

"It shouldn't matter what one looks like if he does his work well," the boy had argued when George had finally revealed these apprehensions.

"No it should not," George had replied, his volume rising with his frustration.

"But neither should there be arguments over borders and gods and manners of dress or—or what have you, and yet there they are. I would not see you subjected to such humiliations that you have not earned in any way save for your being born of your mother."

The boy's face had clouded then and he paused before very quietly asking, "Were you embarrassed of my mother?"

George was dumbstruck and perhaps he'd hesitated too long for the boy's satisfaction, because whatever answer he could've given his son would not have sufficed. If ever George was worried that he and his son might have grown distant, he could be sure of it now. George never really talked of her and his son had never really asked and anything that might have served to mend that rift between them would be too late. George fretted guiltily over the matter in his journals, but never found the time to really sit with the boy and talk.

Now, they were going to Edinburgh. It was a night and two days on the road and another two nights and day in the city before the ship would set sail and carry his son away from him. George was very tempted to turn round his decision and bring Geordie back home.

During the long drive, Thomas talked and Geordie watched the landscape pass in the window, while the elder George stared at his son and brooded.

* * *

Tharkay joined Hassan and his guests at a lavish table. It was set low to the floor and cushions had been set around it so that his guests could recline while they ate. Much in keeping with the Ottoman style that he'd been exposed to in Turkey. Tharkay was seated several places down from the head of the table near a man wearing a ragged and much faded frock coat—so worn that Tharkay almost didn't recognize the man for what he was, a French officer. The gentleman was very thin indeed, hollow faced with dark rings around his eyes, and skin sallow and stretched waxy and taught over the bones of his face.

Tharkay sat down cross-legged beside the man and nodded in greeting and the gentleman smiled.

"Salaam 'alekum," he said and Tharkay smiled and turned to drink from the jeweled goblets set on the table before them. Mostly he thought it amusing that the goblets—which were fashioned out of brass—had chipped gemstones very obviously made of glass.

"_You are not a Muslim_," Tharkay replied when he'd set down his cup—it was only water—and turned to the man again. The cadaverous face was alight at Tharkay's interaction and he gesticulated excitedly as he poured out in very broken Persian.

"_From France I am here. Here. I came a long—_um…_ very long way. I will create map… several maps… for… for… King of France. I'm by the name of Jean Lefebvre. Kindly, what is your name_?"

"_I am Tharkay_," Tharkay said, amused.

"_You are Hazara_?" The man asked, his gray eyes shining from their deep sockets.

"_No_," Tharkay said and grinned very congenially, "_Have you ever seen a pistachio? Are they not very green? I suppose the humble pistachio is the king of all nuts, don't you agree?_"

Jean grinned, "Um…," he said, "Pesteh?"

"_No thank you_," Tharkay said, "_I only said that to confuse you_. _It wasn't a problem_."

"Ah," Jean said, "_No problems_."

"Tashakor," Tharkay said, and Jean nodded evidently pleased with himself.

Tharkay motioned Jean closer and said low, "Je ne parle pas bien le français. Parlez-vous anglais?"

Jean looked at him and gaped. Tharkay worried that the poor fellow might swoon. Instead Jean grabbed him happily by the loose sleeves of his qamis, "Mon dieu!"

Tharkay was very startled by his reaction and glanced around the table at the other guests. One or two looked back at him, but most of them were talking in groups amongst themselves and paid little attention to the odd Frenchman and his companion.

"I have very good English," Jean said.

Hassan stood and addressed his guests at the start of the meal. He nodded and sighed appreciatively while the 'mezze'—as he called it—dishes were being served. The attempt had a decidedly Kabuli flair, with standards like hummus and rocket conspicuously absent.

"_My friends_," Hassan said, waving his chubby hands in the air, "_thank you for sharing my table on this auspicious day_."

Tharkay was trying to remember what day it was when he was distracted by a retching noise. Jean had been eyeing most of the dishes with apprehension but the naan—which he must've considered innocuous—he was shoveling greedily into his mouth. When he remembered to breathe he gave a little gasp and gagged a little. Tharkay frowned at him, but the man must have come through in a bad way.

Hassan's speech rambled on, involving great prophets and Ottoman kings, and even hinting at his relationship with people like the Emperor in China and the King in America. Tharkay took another sidelong glance at Jean—he'd started choking. Tharkay looked back at Hassan who was addressing one of the other Arabs nearest him directly—Jean's face was turning a deep shade of scarlet and veins throbbed in his forehead. The man sitting on Jean's other side tried to get his attention with a tap. Tharkay slapped Jean hard on the back and he coughed out a wad of naan. He sat there blubbering and panting and Tharkay angled himself away from the Frenchman conscious of the curious glances flitting in Jean's direction.

"—_and_," Hassan continued, "_My friend, the map maker for the Kings of France and Italy_—"

Jean stood up and smiled around at the others, face red and eyes watering. He cleared his throat and said a few words in what Tharkay thought sounded like decent enough Arabic—being that he did not know very much of the language himself, it meant little. Jean sat down and a few of the Arab traders sitting nearby offered their greetings.

Hassan rattled on for a bit longer and then sat and several dishes of rice—cleverly prepared in the style of the region—and skewers of chicken and lamb were served to the guests. Tharkay eagerly accepted a cup of some liquid a deep shade of red and was disappointed to learn it was only pomegranate juice.

Suddenly he only wished to be on his way again.

* * *

**A/N:** _Reviews/Comments welcome—thanks for reading.._


	7. 7 The Map Maker

_**Disclaimer: Several characters as well as this Alternate History were created by Naomi Novik. I'm just a fan, imitating.**_

**-7-**

**The Map Maker**

_In which Tharkay attempts to discover the purpose of the wayward Frenchman._

Tharkay stood in his room and stared out of the window at the dark sky. Subhana was already gone when he'd excused himself after dinner though whatever entertainments Hassan had provided for his guests must have impressed, as the raucous sounds of laughter and music echoed throughout the house.

A gunshot cracked through the night sky somewhere in the city and beyond and the sound of it echoed in the valley only to be answered by another shot, and another. Tharkay scratched his temple; perhaps it was a special day after all.

"Monsieur! 'Allo!" Tharkay leaned further out of the window and saw the skinny Frenchman hanging precariously from a window, perhaps three doors down.

"You will fall," Tharkay said and left the window.

He picked up his panniers and brought them to the wooden bench set to one side in the room. He still had the few dregs of his food left in them, a wool blanket, his journal and his pot—he took everything out and surveyed the items. Some of these things had travelled a very long way. But these were practical things and Tharkay wasn't one to attach anything more to these items than whether they were going to be needed or not. He started separating the items into two groups.

He was in the middle of this project when Jean entered his room unannounced. Tharkay stiffened and crossed his arms at the sight of him, glaring.

"What do you need?" He said.

"Nothing, Monsieur," Jean said, and without invitation settled himself on Tharkay's borrowed bed. Tharkay didn't move from where he was standing.

"I wasn't expecting company," he said, dangerously calm.

Jean just frowned up at him and shrugged, "You are going to the market tomorrow?"

Tharkay turned to look at the door and then glared back at Jean.

"Monsieur, I am so very lonely," Jean said suddenly and Tharkay's brow knit.

Jean continued when Tharkay didn't say a thing. "I have been surrounded by these 'orrible people for too long now. I don't think that I will like Kathmandu."

Tharkay winced and put a hand to his temple, "You're going to—why?"

"Because I am ze map maker," Jean said sullenly.

"Right," Tharkay said, "For the Kings of France and Italy…"

Jean brightened a little, "I shall make zis map to China."

Tharkay went back to sorting his things and then repacked the panniers. The discarded items he wrapped in the old blanket and set to the side. Jean just watched him with an inordinate amount of interest.

"Ze Sultan says you are a very good traveler," Jean said, and Tharkay didn't even spare him a glance.

"How do you know English?" Jean asked, and when Tharkay didn't respond, "I lived in England—for two months. So zat is why I am so very good."

"You do realize the Revolution is over?" Tharkay said.

"Ah," Jean said, "Perhaps."

Tharkay shook his head and motioned for the man to leave.

"Monsieur," Jean started, "I only was going—"

"I would like some privacy, sir. If you don't mind," Tharkay said.

Jean pleaded with him even as Tharkay pushed him through the door and then locked it.

Tharkay woke early and secured his things. He pulled on his boots, tucking the loose legs of the shalwar in them. He put his belt on over the qamis so that he had a place to sheath his blade. It was still dark when he left the house and headed back toward the market in Kabul.

Mostly he wanted to consider his new dilemma, he hadn't expected a detour into Kathmandu at all, nor was he very eager to dredge up all of the memories of his last visit in Nepal.

Still, the money was very good and the direction more or less on his route, so certainly he could risk whatever he was worried about for a little extra profit. Hassan had given him half of his payment up front—and Tharkay had made sure to over estimate his need, as he may or may not ever see the other half.

He wondered too about the cargo. They certainly mined their own salt in the mountains, and the wood was not of a particularly rare quality that would justify so arduous—and expensive—a journey. In the end it was curiosity more than the money itself that won him over—and perhaps, the dragons.

* * *

The doctor's name was Ure, and he was short and taciturn and sometimes difficult to work for, but he never minded what Geordie looked like. The doctor had chosen him from among five young men and had made his choice solely on a sampling of handwriting. The doctor was fair and reasonable. If perhaps this wasn't what his father had wanted for him, it did not seem so terrible a consequence.

Thomas, of course, found a place at the Residency. Thomas who was not quite so far along in his language studies, and hadn't nearly as fair a hand as Geordie. But for all that, Thomas was fairer of face, and Geordie couldn't wish him ill for that. The Doctor was honest and fair and Geordie couldn't complain of his treatment.

The first week he'd worked there, the Doctor said nothing to him aside from his direction. Geordie had never been inclined to idle conversation and as there'd been no invitation, he did not volunteer. He was, by title of his employment, a clerk. He managed the Doctor's records and his correspondences and beyond, as the doctor's staff was very small, Geordie found himself also burdened with the position of medical assistant.

As his father hadn't intended that he become a tradesman, medicine, in any practical form, was wholly alien to him. Geordie did find it interesting at times—if not fascinating—and he never balked when asked to assist the doctor in any way outside of his prescribed duty.

So it happened, after six days as the doctor's assistant, a man came in with a wound in his shoulder. He'd bled out for sometime and his clothing was soaked red with blood. Geordie was the only person at the door to greet him and brought him into Doctor Ure's examination room. The doctor had looked up in surprise and demanded to know what had happened.

"Honor," the man said and the doctor shook his head. Geordie had the honor of holding the fellow down during the operation. The operation was short and relatively routine but the man stayed in the clinic at his own request—though he'd lost a great deal of blood, Doctor Ure was not very willing to board a patient overnight. Geordie also had the honor of staying overnight to watch the patient—well, mostly the doctor wanted him to watch the clinic.

So it happened that Geordie was marking in his journal by the light of a sputtering candle when the patient interrupted him. The man was still wearing the blood soaked shirt, now cut where the surgeon needed to cut it and minus his equally bloody neck cloth which had bound the wound prior to treatment.

"Do you need something?" Geordie asked him.

The man stared at him agape—as if a donkey had spoken to him.

"Sir?" George said.

"You speak English," the patient said.

Geordie nodded, thinking that the observation had been adequately confirmed without the need of further elaboration. He stared at the man and was stared at in return. Finally the patient sat heavily in the nearest chair and cleared his throat.

"Where is the doctor?"

"He went home for the night," Geordie said.

The man looked around the room before giving a small cough.

"I don't suppose he keeps his medicine in here at night?" he said.

"Under lock and key," Geordie said.

The man frowned, "Did he leave anything for me?"

"No," Geordie said.

The man frowned again and leaned back in the chair and stared at the floor contemplative. Geordie went back to his journal, fearing the candle wouldn't last very much longer. He finished in his book several minutes later with the candle low in its holder and glanced up to find the patient staring at him. The man smiled and Geordie's brow furrowed.

"Perhaps," Geordie said, "You should try to sleep."

"Where did you come from?" The man said, ignoring the suggestion.

"Scotland," Geordie said.

"No you didn't," the man stood and walked up to the table Geordie was sitting at, "How old are you?"

Geordie only frowned and stood.

"You look like a girl," the patient said, laughing at Geordie's anxiousness.

Geordie moved to stand behind the doctor's desk, "The doctor will be in early this morning, perhaps you should try to sleep."

"Is there water to drink?" the man said turning away from him. Geordie's eyes narrowed.

"There was a pitcher for you in the patient's infirmary," he said.

"I drank it already," the patient said.

"I'm sorry," Geordie said, though he didn't really feel sorry in the least, "It will be morning soon."

"Won't you get water for me?"

"I'm not to leave the clinic," Geordie said.

The man glared at him now and Geordie glared back, trying to decide what he would do—he'd never had much luck standing against his stepbrother, and this man was bigger yet. Finally the man yawned and returned to the bed they'd given him. Geordie leaned back in the doctor's chair relieved. He had his journal in one hand and the doctor's penknife in the other.

* * *

"_Why is he going_?" Tharkay stood in front of Hassan's polished desk with his arms crossed and his dark eyes narrowed to slits.

Hassan just shook his head ambiguously, "_He is paid by Ibn Masoud. It is his affair. You are going to watch my merchandise._"

Tharkay didn't move and though the fat man pretended not to see him standing there, Tharkay's patience won out and Hassan looked up at him ruefully.

"_I cannot change it. Masoud contracted the dragons."_

_ "What are you transporting?"_ Tharkay said.

Hassan startled and hesitated before saying, "_I cannot in good conscience speak of this here._"

"_Of course_," Tharkay said, "_the walls have mice… Will you need me to deliver anything to Staunton_?"

"_My dear_," Hassan laughed, "_You are getting greedy_."

Tharkay shrugged, "_Suit yourself_. _I have one other request_."

"_At your service, my friend_," Hassan said.

"_Will you board my horse_?" Tharkay said, "_I don't think he is very fond of dragons_."

Hassan hesitated again, "_My friend, horses are expensive to keep and I don't know when you are coming back._"

"_He's not a big horse_," Tharkay said.

"_I don't know_," Hassan said dismissively.

"_You can take the board out of my fee_," Tharkay said.

Hassan pursed his lips contemplative, and then he nodded, "_I will care for him like one of my own stallions_."

Tharkay went back to his room inventorying his supply in his head and hoping to himself that Hassan would not try to ride Khan. He found his journal among his scant personal baggage and thumbed through it—pushing the leaf of rice paper back into its hiding place when it made itself known—until he found a blank page. He was still writing when someone entered the room unannounced. He looked up once to see whom it was and then returned to his writing.

"_Where have you been_?" It was Subhana and she stood over him peering into the book. Tharkay didn't stop to look up at her.

"_I had business_," he said, "_I'm leaving in the morning_."

"_But you just got here_!" She said.

"_I'm sure you'll have others to occupy your time_," He said.

"_I was waiting for a long time yesterday_," Subhana said, "_Then it was time for supper_."

Tharkay paused and glanced up at her, a smile playing on his lips.

"_I don't need a report_," he went back to his writing, "_It's no consequence to me what you do with your time._"

She glared at him and he stopped again to stare back, grinning outright. She was beautiful when she was angry, with her full mouth gathered in a lovely pout and the glint of her dark eyes like coals.

"_You are making sport of me_," she said her voice lowered in anger.

"_I'm not_," he said still smiling as he returned to his journal.

"_I'm not stupid_," she said, "_I can tell when you are making fun_."

Tharkay made a small noise and turned the page in his journal and continued to write. Subhana crossed her arms livid at his disinterest. He paused again to dip his pen without acknowledging her.

"_You can finish that later_," she said.

"_I'm doing this now_," Tharkay said simply, "_I'd rather do this while I'm thinking of it and not later when I may forget._"

Still Subhana refused to leave and she watched him for several minutes more before smacking the book out of his hands. Tharkay stood to retrieve his book and laid it open on the bench. He turned to her.

"_Get out_," he said.

She started to laugh and he looked down at his hand blackened with ink and then he saw the streaks and splashes that had dripped onto the white shalwar and qamis he was wearing. Subhana covered her mouth with her hands still giggling.

"_I'm sorry_—"

"_Get out now_," Tharkay said.

Subhana fled and Tharkay stood looking at his ink-stained fingers rubbing them together. The book was unharmed; a few droplets of ink on the binding, but the inkwell had emptied itself into the threadbare carpet. Tharkay frowned, annoyed.

Jean was sitting on his bed reading from a scroll while eating from a bowl of nuts. He only glanced up casually when Tharkay entered and gave him a small nod of greeting.

"'Allo, Monsieur," Jean said.

Tharkay had done his best to scrub the ink from his fingers, but they would be black for a while yet.

"Sir," Tharkay said, "I'm sorry to disturb you."

"Oh, non, monsieur," Jean said and smiled, "I am very pleased to see you."

Tharkay paused, unsure how to respond to that. He decided to ignore the comment, and said, "Do you have black ink?"

"Blank ink?" Jean said.

"L'encre," Tharkay said, "noire."

"Oh," Jean said and grinned, "non."

Tharkay's brow furrowed. Jean smiled again and pointed at the splotches of spilled ink on his clothes.

"Did you have a problem?"

"Yes," Tharkay said.

"Oh, quelle horreur!" Jean said shaking his head sympathetically.

"I thought you said you were a map maker?" Tharkay said.

"Ah," Jean said, "I am a map maker."

"And you don't have ink? N'avez pas d'encre?" Tharkay frowned.

"Ah," Jean said flapping his hands at Tharkay, "Close the door, monsieur. Come look at this!"

Tharkay only wanted to leave, but he humored the man and approached the bed. He came only as close as was necessary to see the scroll up close. The map was crude with wavering proportions and labeled in poorly scrawled Arabic.

Tharkay almost told him out loud that it was terrible. Instead he did his best to feign interest and leaned in to study it more closely.

"It is—comment dites—ah—paint," Jean said.

"I see," Tharkay said.

Jean waved a hand toward Tharkay's ink stained clothing, "It is cleaner."

"But it shan't last very long—it will fade," Tharkay said—slowly, so that Jean could understand him. "And your lines aren't very fine." Or accurate, he thought.

Jean frowned and shrugged, "Monsieur Ibn Masoud likes my maps."

"I'll bet he likes more than that," Tharkay muttered under his breath as he started for the door.

"Q'avez-vous dit?"

"Heechi," Tharkay said and opened the door.

"Monsieur," Jean said, "Will a dragon eat a man?"

Tharkay turned to look at Jean, "I dare say one might. If it's hungry."

"How long will it be to Sarikol?" Jean said.

"A few days—it depends on the train," Tharkay said.

"Oh? Train?" Jean said.

"Caravan," Tharkay said, "I think Hassan has hired camels. Some prefer mules."

"Did you travel once to Sarikol?"

"I've been a few times," Tharkay said.

Jean's thin shoulders drooped and he stared at his map looking rather pathetic. Tharkay closed the door and walked back to him. Jean sighed plaintively.

"Do you know what they're bringing to Kathmandu?" Tharkay said.

Jean threw him a puzzled look and took a moment to work out the English, "It is wood and salt and some oils, maybe. But inside it is gold."

"Inside?"

"Oui, inside. It is—secret," Jean said.

"Hidden?" Tharkay asked.

"Eh?" Jean said. Tharkay wondered why Hassan wouldn't tell him, but Ibn Masoud had no problem sharing this with Jean.

"Your man, Ibn Masoud," Tharkay said, "Where is he from?"

"Monsieur I am not certain," Jean said, "I only just met him."

"Where?" Tharkay said.

Jean shrugged, "Quelque part en Perse… I am not certain."

Tharkay frowned at his boots. Jean must have deserted in Africa and somehow ended up in the care of the Arab merchant. Unless, perhaps, he was still working for Napoleon. Tharkay glanced up to find Jean staring sidelong at him. Jean smiled.

"Where are you from?" Jean said.

Tharkay gave slight bow; "I shall see you in the morning, sir."

Jean was saying something in his grating Frenchy English when Tharkay stepped out and closed the door.

* * *

**A/N:** _Just to clarify for both of my readers—you know who you are ;)…_

_Anywho… below is the timeline being used in the story. This assumes that he is older than Granby and somewhat younger than Laurence. (Which might explain why he tries so hard to impress him)_

Timeline:

b. 1779~ or thereabouts

1785- removed to Britain (approximate age 6)

1794- went back to India (approximate age 15)

1797- Army (approximate age 17)

1799- went crazy (approximate age 20)

1800- ran off into the world (approximate age 20)

1801- Arrival in Istanbul (approximate age 22)

1803- the dragon train (approximate age 24)

1804- Return to Scotland (approximate age 25)

1805- Istanbul again (approximate age 26)

Summer 1806 – meets Laurence (approximate age 27)

Late 1807- Return to England (28-_at this point he tired of approximating_)

1808-New South Wales (29)

1809-Bombay (30) _(Though he should've hung around for South America IMO)_

_As always thanks for reading! (Both of you)_


End file.
